


diamond in the rough

by sundaycandy (tickingclocks)



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: :), Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Biphobia, Child Abuse, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hair Salon AU, Kinda, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mock Trial, Multi, Racism, Recreational Drug Use, Teen Pregnancy, Trans Female Character, Transphobia, and bc i wanted john laurens with dreadlocks, i only made this bc i realized there werent any hair salon aus, idk what city this takes place in yall can use ur imaginations, more tags to be added as it intensifies :), yikes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-04 17:38:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5342684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tickingclocks/pseuds/sundaycandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All poor immigrant Alex Hamilton wanted to do was become successful enough so that everybody who doubted him would know his name (in his words, "stunt on their hateful asses"). He wanted to climb the political ladder, citizenship be damned, and make some real change in the world. However, he's too busy sweeping up much too expensive hair off the hair salon floor and getting his ass beat by racist teachers (figuratively) and bigot bullies (literally) to be able to do any of that. </p><p>Well, at least he has friends now.</p><p>(Obligatory High School AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi this is my first hamilton fic! i've been highkey wanting to write SOMETHING ever since i started using the soundtrack as my life source. idk how often this'll update bc finals but definitely expect something over winter break ;)
> 
> also, ms. martha is martha washington jsyk
> 
> hope u enjoy

It’s February, harsh wind blowing through the crowd, reddening noses and cheeks. The onlookers do not care though, for they are observing history. And, though the man on stage before them usually despised the cold, he can’t bring himself to care either. 

He is being inaugurated into the White House, being told to repeat some mantra that he had already memorized the morning before. He was not going to mess this up, not when there were thousands of people watching in person, and millions watching from the warm comfort of their homes. 

He stands with no one but his faceless Vice President behind him. He hadn’t seen the need to perpetuate the family-man image that both his opponents and presidents before him had. It didn’t seem necessary. He was here to run a country, not a family. The newspapers will be talking about his goals for Congress, his tax plans, his gun control legislation, not him taking his kids to see _Frozen on Ice_.

Once he is finished with the oath, taking his formerly raised hand to shake that of the man who swore him in, he grins, facing the crowd. They cheer with abandon, some with tears in their eyes. They had just observed the first Afro-Latino president be sworn in, but not only that, the first president not born on American soil. 

The man who swore him in clutches the bible in his right hand, and motions towards him with his left. “Citizens of this great nation, I now introduce you to the President of the United States, Alexander Ham--”

“Alex, go turn on a fan, instead of sitting there watchin’ all of us drown in sweat! Cha!” 

Alexander Hamilton, the very much not President of the United States, is snapped out of his reverie by his boss, Ms. Martha. He scrambles out of the metal chair he was sitting on, grabs the broom leaning against the wall next to him, and moves across the room to turn on the large fan. Once this is done, and he hears a breath of relief from one of the women closest to the fan, he shakes the memory of his daydream out of his head. _Soon_ , he thinks. But, now is not the time.

It’d been a long road from the slums of Haiti, begging on the streets with his cousin, Peter, only a few months after his mother died in bed next to him. Not long after her death had been that horrendous earthquake that had destroyed the entire side of the island. Sometimes, at night, he’d recall being trapped under the wreckage of the abandoned house he and his cousin used to walk past every day. It was as if, in the safety of his own bed far away from the island of Hispaniola, he was still there, unable to breath and with a large gash in the back of his head, the smell of death surrounding him like fog. 

He doesn’t exactly sleep much anymore.

Now, he works in a cramped hair salon on the floor below a marriage counseling service. Ms. Martha used to say that it was the perfect spot; after tired wives finally came to terms with the fact that their marriage was in shambles, they could get a new ‘do to feel better about themselves. Though Alex didn't approve of taking advantage of people's emotions, he had to admit, the idea was genius.

His job is to sweep up the imported hair, disinfect combs, clean up the bathroom in the back, and if they’re really, really short on stylists, he occasionally helps with doing the hair itself. The job doesn’t pay much, but it’s a job, and he trusts Ms. Martha. It was she who invited him to live in the US with her after a visit back to her home country a year after the earthquake. She had found him on a street corner, sitting on the curb, waiting to die. Turns out, he and his cousin had worked for a friend of her’s. Though she didn’t have the means to permanently care for the then 11 year-old at the time, giving him a plane ticket, eventually a green card, and a job was the least she could do.

As he sweeps, he observes the stylists as they work their deft fingers through the hair of harried women of all ages. Most of the stylists are Haitian, and proud of it, as a large flag of Haiti hangs over one of the walls, near the back room. Though the half-Dominican side of him doesn't want to admit it, Alex tends to feel more at home in the salon than he does at his actual home, if the group home run by his Asshole of the Year foster father can even be called such a thing.

One of the stylists is speaking adamantly about her foster son, Aaron, to the woman in the chair. She’d been working at the salon for as long as Alex can remember, and even though she’s not Haitian, she can braid hair with the best of them. 

“Aaron’s gonna be a senior this year. He’s already started working on college applications, all by himself! Says he wants to go to Columbia. You hear that? My baby’s gonna get into Columbia. Gonna become the next black president, that boy.”

He’d met Aaron before. Tall, deep voice, but didn’t really talk all that much. They’d only ever exchanged a few pleasantries and customary small talk with each other. Alex didn’t know he was into politics.

Aaron’s foster mother works there in the evening on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. The rest of the week, she’s working at a nursing home on the other side of town. Aaron stops by sometimes to give her a Subway sandwich when she knows she’s working extra late. She always gives him the same tired, yet grateful crinkly-eyed smile when he does. Aaron, Alex thinks, is one of the few lucky bastards with a foster parent that genuinely loves them. 

Alex, himself, was never lucky.

The woman in the chair starts talking about her own kid, trying to show a picture on her phone when Aaron’s foster mom warns her that she’s about to spray her head with some Shea Moisture. The woman covers her eyes, quickly, allowing the vapor to fall over her head and add yet another scent to the already stifling room. Alex doesn’t mind though. After working there for three years, the fumes of hair spray line his lungs like a coat and he hardly registers the smell anymore.

“Well, look at you!” The stylist hands the woman a hand-mirror, allowing her to see the intricate braids flowing down her back. The two ladies beam at each other through the larger mirror in front of them.

Suddenly, three people walk through the door, looks of confusion on their faces. A man, overbearingly tall and white, grimaces at his surroundings. “You said this was the place, Eleanor.”

The woman next to him scoffs. “It is, _Henry_. If you would use your eyes for once, you’d see the sign saying it was upstairs.” Her deep brown skin glistens with sweat, and though Alex has never been to beauty school, he can tell her short afro is drying out and needs moisture fast. He couldn’t blame her, though. It had been hot as Hades all day. Nothing like summer in the city, Ms. Martha always said.

The couple get into a quiet, yet heated argument, harsh words gritted out through teeth filling the sweltering air. Everyone else in the room tries and fails to pretend they aren’t straining their ears to listen.

Alex is one of them. He’d never really been the discreet type. However, he seems to be the only one that notices the boy with them. He’s skinny, but nowhere near as skinny as Alex, with mahogany brown dreadlocks pulled back into a long ponytail. He seems to be taking the heat the worst, with a waterfall practically running down his face. 

“Son, you stay here, understand me?” The man points at one of the metal chairs that lines the entire room, with a sternness that reminded Alex of his foster father. The boy rolls his eyes and picks the one closest to the fan, plopping into it with a huff. 

The woman, noticing this, reaches into her purse and passes the boy a $20 bill. When the boy refuses, she asserts, “You’re cutting yourself off from your father, not me. Take it. Go get a snack or something. Your father and I should be out in an hour.”

As soon as the couple is upstairs and out of hearing range, the salon bursts with conversation, most of it in French. 

“Et voilà ce qui arrive quand tu te marie un homme blanc,” one of the hairdressers says, cackling with the elderly woman whose hair she’s twisting. 

“Il doit être l'argent . Cet homme ressemble à Donald Trump,” quips Ms. Martha from where she is ringing up a leaving customer. 

Letting out another huff, the boy abruptly leaps up out of the chair, the metal scraping against the tile floor. Alex will definitely have to get rid of the scuff mark later. Without another word, he’s out of the establishment, and stomping down the street. Against his better judgement, Alex feels the crippling need to follow him.

Leaving his trusty broom next to John’s chair, he takes a chance to rush out the door the second Ms. Martha is looking away. Once he’s outside, the heat of the sun hitting him like a 2X4, or one of his foster brothers‘ punches, he realizes that the boy hadn’t gotten all that far, and is simply leaning against the brick of the boarded up former insurance office next door. Taking a hot breath, he marches over to the teenager, and mimics his position against the wall. They stand in silence for all of twenty seconds before Alex speaks.

“Why’d you leave like that?”

“Look, man, I’ve been taking French since grade school; I know y’all are talking shit about my parents.”

“They talk shit about everyone. It’s in the hairdresser code." He laughs at his own joke, and only stops when the boy next to him is unresponsive. 

“It’s just, they always do this.” Alex can tell he’s not talking about the stylists anymore. “Always make these big scenes, everywhere. It’s fucking embarrassing. Makes you wonder why they don’t just split up already.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, why don’t they?”

“My dad’s running for mayor. Last thing he wants is a nasty divorce tarnishing his image.” Another reason why Alex would not be married by the time he inevitably screws Article II, Section 1, Clause 5 of the Constitution and runs for president. Too many risks. 

He continues with, “The bastard doesn’t care about me. And, at the end of the day, my ma, bless her heart, will do whatever it takes to keep him happy.”

“Which explains the marriage counseling.”

The boy shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Exactly.” He’s sweating like a pig again, but Alex can’t help but find him absurdly gorgeous. His eyes are light, so much unlike Alex’s own dark ones, and his eyelashes are almost freakishly long. His lips are plump, even as he bites at them, and his face is covered in freckles. Alex feels like he’s looking at the very sun that’s causing their sweaty demise. 

He snaps himself out of it. “So, how come you’re all the way over here in the ‘hood? Don’t tell me your parents aren’t loaded because, well.” Everyone had noticed the expensive suit his father had been wearing, and the Tiffany charm bracelet that had been hanging on his mother’s wrist. The whole “running for mayor” thing was just icing on the cake. 

“Dad didn’t want anyone snapping photos of him and my ma going inside one of the fancy shmancy couple’s therapy places by where we live, so he reckoned that no one would be able to catch him out here. Not a bad idea, I guess. Just wish they didn’t have to bring me with ‘em.” His face falls completely at this, aging his otherwise youthful features.

In a weak attempt to brighten the mood, Alex decides to change the subject to something he’s used to talking about: hair.

“How long have you been growing them?” He nods at the boy’s locs before he can ask what Alex meant.

“Oh, about four years. Pops was mad as hell when I got ‘em, though. Said they made me look like a ‘dope fiend’,” barking out a humorless laugh, he subconsciously pushes a few locs out of his face. “But I don’t care what he thinks anymore, so.” He rolls his eyes, this time seemingly at himself. “But, forget that. Uh, how long have you been working at this place?”

“Since I moved here in 2012.” He doesn’t have to say where he moved from—it’s obvious from the accent. “All this waiting around must be making you hungry. You wanna stop by the Jamaican place down the street?”

The boy narrows his eyes at Alex, trying to suss him out. Alex couldn’t exactly blame him. He usually wasn’t this nice. He eventually acquiesces, though, and they head down the sidewalk, side by side. 

The woman at the counter grimaces at them, as she tended to do, which makes the boys smile. It was a universal truth that the meaner the lady at the counter of a Caribbean restaurant, the better the food. After being told that the wait for spicy beef patties would be around fifteen minutes, the boys decide to take advantage of the free air conditioning and wait inside. 

They chit chat for a while, with Alex telling his new acquaintance more about the salon to distract the other boy from his clear inner turmoil. John doesn’t say it, but he appreciates the effort. Once the cashier signals that the beef patties are ready, they go up to the counter to pay for them. The boy quickly hands the cashier the $20 before Alex can even reach into his pockets. 

Affronted, Alex whispers, “What the hell, man?” as the cashier begins to make change. The teen simply shrugs. After the change and the receipt are all but dumped into the boy’s hand, the two make their way to a table to enjoy the delicacy. 

“So, I never got your name.”

“Oh, it’s Alex. Hamilton. Alex Hamilton.” His stomach growls in both hunger and shame at his sudden inability to speak. “You?”

“John Laurens. Family sometimes calls me Jack, though. What school you go to?”

“Uh, well, I start at Ashburton High in August.”

“Me too! Damn, you’re a freshman?”

“No, a junior. I just transferred.”

“Same. To both, I mean. Parents thought it’d be easier on everyone if and when the divorce happens that I’m closer to the city, or something. Used to go to that private school up north. Where did you go?”

“One of the schools that just shut down.”

“Shit.” Shit indeed. It was a fairly common thing, the shutdowns. It seemed like every year another school in Alex’s side of town was closing for some bullshit reason or another. As if it was easy for poor kids of color to find a school to go to in their district when all of them were dropping off the face of the earth to make way for strip malls.

“I guess we both get to be the new kid, then.” John gave him the first real smile Alex had seen on him, and good lord almighty, it was beautiful. A wealthy family definitely lead to high quality dental work, because John Laurens’ teeth were too straight and too white to be from tooth paste and flossing alone. 

They passed the rest of the hour eating, voicing their fears for the new school year, and even discussing their shared activist work after John had observed Alex’s slightly torn “Black Lives Matter” wristband. 

“Some old white lady once checked me in the ribs during a protest. I was this close to doing it right back, I swear.” Alex laughs at the memory, and at John’s full-out guffaw in reaction to it, before remembering how bad he had gotten it from his foster father after he had gotten home. He’s pulled out of the memory by John’s impression of Alex, with an exaggerated accent, squaring up to fight an imaginary geriatric adversary.

By the time the hour is up, Alex and John’s stomachs hurt from laughing so much, and they retreat from the restaurant, avoiding the cashier’s glare at all costs. They run back up the street, ignoring the guy that’s always selling cans of soda for 50 cents each by the lamp post, and reenter the salon. 

As soon as Alex is through the threshold, Ms. Martha is on his ass, ready to give him the tongue lashing of a lifetime for leaving without any warning for a whole hour. Before she can do that, however, the distinct sound of footsteps from the staircase leading up to the counseling floor are heard.

Mr. Laurens comes stomping down the stairs, sparing a nod to Ms. Martha. His hands are clenched into fists. “Jack, we’re leaving.” The session must have gone well.

“We should go out to eat, don’t you think, Johnny?” Mrs. Laurens’ voice is strained, part of her short afro bunched together, like she had been grabbing her hair in anxiety while refraining from ripping her husband a new one.

“Sorry, Ma. Kinda already ate. But,” he began, seeing the pained look on his mother’s face. “We could catch that movie you’ve been wanting to see, if you want?”

“Yeah, that sounds good, Johnny.” She placed a hand on his back, covering the ends of his locs. As the crumbling family exit the salon, John turns back to look at Alex, giving a small smile. Alex smiles back, mouthing “see you at school”, and watches him walk across the street through the window to a shiny black SUV. Alex feels out of breath, like he does when he thinks back to life before moving to the states. But this breathlessness feels completely different. He isn’t being crushed anymore.

And, Alex knows exactly why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also i adored the headcanon that ham is Dominican/Haitian from iluzjonista's fic "to scale the blue sky" so ye :)
> 
> comments n concerns r highly appreciated! [to the tune of "ride with me"] if u wanna go and come sin with me hit me up on tumblr @ barackandrollobama, o why do i live this way (hey must be the money)
> 
> mi twitter is @mystori_machine


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall have been so nice wtf! thank u for all the kind words!

It’s nearing the end of August, and though Alex would usually be dreading the months of schooling ahead of him, he’s almost giddy with excitement.

Turns out, John’s parents had scheduled their sessions with the counselor for every two weeks, meaning that Alex got to see him three more times after their first encounter. Ms. Martha didn’t particularly approve of his skiving off of duties to hang out with a near stranger, but she knew that the youth had never really had friends before, so she mostly kept quiet.

Mostly. 

“Boy, you better get back here! If you _must_ hang ‘round that browning boy every second of the day, then he can be put to work just like you.” She shoves a broom into John’s hands. “You don’t have to keep leaving out like you’re on lunch break!”

Alex decides that’s fair. He really had been kinda irresponsible with the whole ditching thing. Plus, John doesn’t seem to mind, as he takes to sweeping up the floors like a fish to slightly-polluted-with-hair-spray water.  The two make a game out of reorganizing the bottles of hair tonic, and, once the place is relatively spotless, John takes a whole box of fruit snacks out of his backpack for him and Alex to share.

“You just made my day, John. Like, seriously.” Alex hadn’t had fruit snacks in a long time. It’s not that his foster dad never bought it, because he did. It was just that his foster siblings always got to the box before he did, and Alex was not going to find a bus all the way to a supermarket (which were few and far between in his area) just to get some damn candy. He knows he told John all of this weeks ago, but had no idea he would’ve remembered.

John chuckles as he eats his third (fourth?) packet. “No problem, dude. Just thought I’d give you a little something-something for being so nice to me.” John gives him a look filled with so much warmth that it makes him almost overwhelmed, like he’s being filled with all the good things he missed out on during his childhood, with a thousand missed hugs, a thousand unseen tender looks, a thousand uneaten fruit snacks.

Alex can feel his face heating up, but thankfully his skin is dark enough for it not to be noticeable. “You getting sappy on me?” John’s face falls at this, slightly, but the smile on his face returns and he laughs, though it sounds out of place. Alex regrets saying anything.

“Hell no, you jerk.” He pops one last candy into his mouth before shoving the empty wrappers into his backpack, before Ms. Martha can accuse them of making a mess. “My parents should be down soon. You can have the rest of these,” he pushes the half-empty box into Alex’s arms, causing his heart to swell. Jesus, here Alex was, 16 years old and gushing like a lovesick puppy over some fruit snacks.

After he rushes to deposit the box in his secret corner in the backroom, where his own ratty backpack filled with overdue library books lies, he saunters back to his new friend and grabs one of his locs to twirl around. In the short time that Alex knew him, he learned that John really likes having his hair played with. “You ready for school on Monday?”

“ _Pssh_ , no. Are you?”

“Yes,” he responds, honestly. He heard that Ashburton was a good school, which is new for Alex. Hopefully, it’ll be the first school he’s been to where all the chairs aren’t balanced by old tennis balls, and the hallways don’t constantly smell like urine. “You’ll be there, so I don’t have much to worry about.”

John’s mouth slowly morphs into a smirk. “Who’s getting sappy now?” Alex swats at the much taller boy, ignoring the heavy fluttering in his chest.

He's so screwed. 

 _______________________

It’s late, the only people left in the salon being Ms. Martha, one of the younger stylists, and himself. The counseling service is closed for the evening, and John had left with his family hours ago.

In walks a girl, only a year older than Alex, with dark skin and large eyes. She walks with a grace that mesmerizes Alex every time he sees her. Her hair is wrapped in a pink bandana, tied in a way so that no one can see the damage done to her hair since her last appointment. Upon seeing Alex, she winks.

“Hey, Peach Fuzz.” Alex can’t even be annoyed by the old nickname, anymore.

“Hey, Angelica,” he greets back, somehow even more giddy than before. Angelica Schuyler, for the past year, had been one of Alex’s favorite things about working at the salon. Her youthful snark and exuberant laugh brought a jazz to the salon that tended to only cater to middle to older aged women. She always joked with Alex while getting her hair done, much to the chagrin of whoever was put to the task of doing said hair.

He’d be lying if he said that he didn’t have a crush on her at first, because, really. The girl was beautiful, even when her hair was a Hot Ass Mess™. She was rich, from the northwest side of the city, where only the wealthiest of the wealthy lived in lavishness. When first asked, she told him the only reason she came all the way over east to get her hair done was because she couldn’t “find anyone who can braid hair like Ms. Martha and her girls” in her gated community.

Ms. Martha looks up from where she's counting the revenue from the day to greet the young lady. “Evening, Miss Angelica. Woy! You look sharp, today, missy.” She does. She’s wearing a crop top-maxi skirt combo, baring her wide stomach for the world to see. She stopped caring about people’s comments of, “fat girls shouldn’t wear crop tops” ages ago.

The teen grins, her purple lipstick shining in the fluorescent lighting. “Thank you, Ms. Martha. I hope I’m not too late? I know my appointment was at 5:00, but the traffic on the way here was horrendous.”

“Don’t worry about it, one bit, ti chouchou. Go sit by the sink, and I’ll have someone be right with you.” She spots the weary woman clearing off the containers of hair gel and oils to make way for something more specific for Angelica’s hair. Ms. Martha tuts, and rushes over to stop her, putting both hands on the woman’s shoulders. “Dominique, you’ve been here all day. Go take care of that newborn of yours.” Though this was met with half-hearted protests, Ms. Martha ended up successfully shooing the grateful mother out of the salon. With a precision of an army general, she turned on her heel with her hands on her hips. “Alex, go wash Miss Angelica’s hair while I get everything ready.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he guides Angelica over to the sinks near where the Haitian flag is, even though she’s been to the salon enough times to know the works. He makes an “after you” motion with his hand as Angelica sits herself down in the leather reclining chair attached to the sink. Alex busies himself with reaching for the appropriate bottles, fingers already tingling. Hair washing was always a weirdly intimate event for him, and not even in a sensual type of way. The process of washing away all the build-up in someone’s hair felt like washing away all the sins, all the memories, good and bad, since their last washing, and helping the person in the chair start anew. He decides that when he’s writing his autobiography, years from now after he’s served two terms as president, the cover art will definitely have something to do with some pseudo-deep, cathartic hair washing. “Lather, Rinse, Repeat: The tale of Alexander Hamilton’s Rise to Glory” he’ll call it.

Angelica reluctantly removes her scarf, revealing the jungle that was her previously kempt box braids. All signs of the meticulous repair from her last appointment had vanished. The shine: lackluster, her tips: split and fuzzy, her edges: nonexistent.

“Shit…Angelica, what did you get up to in the past month?”

 “It’s called _heat_ , Alex. It is _summer_ , and so I _sweat_. Don’t judge me.”

“But, it looked so good last time…”

“You say that every single time. Of course it _looked_ good. Now, it doesn’t. If it did, I wouldn’t be here for maintenance, now would I?” She’s got a point there.

He rakes a hand through her hair, ignoring the observation that it somehow feels different than John's. “So, how have you been?”

“That’s kinda a loaded question.”

“What? Had a bad August?”

“No, not bad, just." She huffs a little, staring at the various cracks on the ceiling. "I start my senior year in two days, and I haven’t started a single college application. I’m not even sure where I want to go!”

Alex wants to say that she should get a start on that immediately, that she shouldn’t have waited so long in the first place to figure things out for herself, because if she waits too long she might miss out on her shot—something like that. But, he doesn’t want to piss her off (he’s seen Angelica pissed off, and it is _far_ from pretty), so he says, “Don’t worry. You got more than enough time.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself. But, everyone keeps breathing down my neck about it. Especially one of my little sisters. She seems to care more about my getting into college than I do.” She sets her head back into the bowl, letting the remainder of her braids fall in. She grins at Alex as he turns on the faucet, and squeezes some shampoo onto his hands.

“So, I know you haven’t figured out which college to go to, but do you know what you wanna do?”

“I was thinking public policy? That or human resources. I’m pretty sure both would require me to be a communications major.” He nods, despite knowing that she can’t see it. He starts kneading her head with the shampoo, dispersing it evenly through her scalp. The stuff is herbal, definitely straight from Haiti, and the smell is thick. While he’s rinsing the shampoo out, it dawns on him that he has no idea what school Angelica even attends, which he really should, because come on, he’s known her for a year. He decides to ask, “Hey, what school do you go to?”

“Ashburton,” is her response, because of course it is. “I know what you’re thinking: what’s the rich girl doing at some public school—“

“A very nice public school down the street from a Whole Foods. _A Whole Foods_ , Angelica.”

“How’d you know it was by the Whole Foods?”

“I’m starting there in two days, too. Thought I’d do some research to see what I’d gotten myself into.”

“Aye, maybe we’ll have some classes together! You check for your schedule on the website yet?”

He had, and memorized it as well. He used the digital map on the website to pinpoint where his classes were ahead of time, so people wouldn’t immediately look at him running around like a chicken without its head (which, he saw a lot of at the market he and his cousin worked at back home. Very disturbing imagery, much like an angry Angelica.) and see a newbie. “I skimmed it, yeah.”

Angelica hums as Alex massages conditioner into her hair. “Don’t worry, I got you, boo. You can hang out with me for the first week.”

“Um, excuse you, who said I needed your charity?”

She shrugs. “I was just looking out for you, Peach Fuzz.”

“Okay, _one_ , you can call me that here, but do not call me that at school. And, _two_ , what if I said I already had friends? Or, like, _a_ friend?”

“How, when you haven’t set a single foot into the school?”

Alex begins scratching at the girl’s head, which causes her to sigh. “There’s a guy in my grade who’s been coming in here with his parents for the past couple months.” Out of respect for John, he doesn’t give details. He doesn’t need any gossip spreading around about him before the first day of school. It’s not that Alex thinks Angelica would tell, but he knows how rumors can grow. “He’s new too, went to that all-boys school that’s in the middle of the woods.”

“Ew, you mean the one with the boys that my dad’s always trying to set me and my sisters up with? With those ugly ass uniforms?”

“The very one,” Alex rinses the remainder of the product out of her hair, leaving her hair feeling fresh and revitalized. Angelica feels like a weight has been lifted off of her.

“Oh, for the love of God, please don’t let this be an Alexander Hamilton 2.0.” Alex rolls his eyes, before playfully throwing a towel at her dripping head, temporarily blinding the girl.

“He is not. I mean, we have a lot in common, but...he’s cool. And thoughtful, and just,” he realizes how gay he sounds, but doesn’t care. “John’s _really_ cool.”

Angelica can’t see the smile on his face, but he can hear it in his voice. She decides it’s not worth commenting on.

Yet.

 _______________________

It’s Sunday night. He can hear the sounds of the train whistle blowing from afar outside his window. There’s a couple the floor below him having the same argument they always do (“You always smell like another woman, always, you fucking—“ “Well, maybe if you weren’t such a frigid bitch, I wouldn’t have to go to someone else!”), and the hisses and howls of feral cats fighting by the trash cans make for a good distraction. He leans over to check his alarm clock: 2:45 AM it reads. Welp, there goes his idea for getting his sleep schedule on track before the school year starts.

Its dark, the only source of light being the digital flash of the clock and his younger foster brother’s Pokémon nightlight. The boy’s 13 years old, but Alex knows not to judge. The foster care system has a way of fucking kids up; he's seen it with his own eyes.

He considers getting his flashlight out to read something—he bought all the books he needed for his AP English class weeks ago, all of them secondhand, but better than nothing—when he hears a buzz from his phone from underneath his pillow. When he extracts it from its hiding spot, he finds that the reason for the notification is John. They had exchanged phone numbers after their second meeting, and had mostly only sent each other stupid memes or links to articles on systemic oppression (romantic, Alex knows). He can’t help but be curious about what this specific text is. The phone buzzes again before he can even enter in his security code.

   John (Cena): u up?

   John (Cena): cause if ur not im sorry don’t read this

Alex chuckles, but not loudly, as he doesn’t want to wake up his foster brother. He sits up a little in his small bed, and works on texting back a reply.

   A.Ham: its cool im always awake

Maybe that’s a bit too honest, but he shrugs it off. It’s too late (early?) for overthinking.

   John (Cena): cool cool so um

_John (Cena) is typing…_

   John (Cena): im like freakishly nervous I kno u said not to be but Ive been going to the same school with the same ppl since I was like 5 so

   John (Cena): this is kinda a lot for me

   John (Cena): and now im whining to u at almost 3 in the fucking morning

   John (Cena): nvm u can go to sleep now while I drown in self pity

   A.Ham: jfc and I thought i was neurotic

   John (Cena): I kno leave me be

   A.Ham: no no no its perfectly reasonable 4 u to be nervous its ok

   A.Ham: just stick w/ me and u will b fine :)

   John (Cena): ill hold u to that alex

   John (Cena): thanks

 Alex wants to reply with something like “anything for u <333” but he has at least _some_ tact, dammit. So, he ends the conversation with the sunglasses emoji (though since his phone is a cheap Samsung, it’s more of a bastardized version of the emoji) and turns off his phone, letting it sit on his chest. He watches it rise and fall with his breaths, and fights a losing battle with the smile creeping onto his face. In the morning, he will race to the bathroom to take a shower that runs cold within two minutes, go to the kitchen fully dressed and steal one of his foster dad’s tasteless vitamin bars, ignore the sound of the old Cuban lady next door to him crying to herself over her husband who died thirty years ago, and make his way to the bus stop to be taken to the west side of town. He will be vibrating with excitement, ready to take on this world that’s inherently set against him, one step at a time.

But now, for the first time in a while, he sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figured I should probably start doing translations lmao:
> 
> browning: term used in parts of the Caribbean that means biracial (white/black)
> 
> Woy!: Caribbean exclamation of excitement?? idk my grandma says it a lot???
> 
> ti chouchou: Creole for “sweetie”
> 
>    
> Thanks for the comments again, next chapter will be the first day of school and will introduce many ppl ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao hey yall i meant to publish this on new years but for the life of me i could not end this chapter....idk why so...its kinda long sorry ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

As soon as he sees the freshly polished floors and smells the distinct scent of a new paint job, Alex knows that this school is right for him. He walks down the halls in mild bewilderment, almost gleeful upon noting that none of the lockers are missing doors or handles. (At his old school, half the students were met with the decision of either carrying all of their supplies on their back at all times, sharing a locker with a friend, or dealing with the not-so appealing option of covering the gaping hole of their locker with a shower curtain and praying none of their stuff got stolen. Seeing that Alex had a grand total of zero friends and wasn’t trying to lose the textbooks he paid good money for, he ended up settling with hauling 75 pounds on his already bad back.)

It’s when he’s twisting the lock to his locker using the combination given to him on the school website that he spots Angelica from where she is bidding goodbyes to two girls that he assumes are her friends. While stuffing away the books he won’t need until later, he shouts her name and waves the girl over with his free hand.

“Hey, Peach Fuzz!” She’s slightly out of breath, and it would only take someone who was looking really closely to tell that she was rushing while applying her makeup (specifically, in the car on the way to school), but she still looks radiant.

“Yo, Angelica, what did I just tell you? Don’t call me that--I got a reputation to build here!”

She pouts, playfully. “Aw, I’m sorry, cupcake. I forgot who I was dealing with. Tough as nails Alexander Hamilton, right? Not the guy that hums to Ciara songs while doing my hair?”

He cringes. He may have gotten too into _Body Party_ when it came on Ms. Martha’s small radio. “Are you making it your mission to ruin me before the first bell rings? Cause if so, that kinda puts a dent in our friendship.”

“I’m not that mean, Alex. I wouldn’t do that to you, especially after you got me looking all kinds of right today,” she makes a point of dramatically flipping her hair over her shoulder, eliciting an eye role from Alex.

“So, I’ll see you 2nd period for AP Lit?” When Angelica responds with a quiet “unfortunately”, Alex’s eyebrows raise. “What’s the problem?”

She shrugs. “Nothing, it’s just that the teacher for that class is a total asshole. For some inconceivable reason he was also teaching AP Gov last year, and he _could not teach_ at all. Thankfully Mr. Washington is teaching it this year, so you’ll be in good hands.” She leans up against the locker next to Alex’s and sighs. “But Jesus, take the wheel, because English is going to be hell.”

“The guy can’t be that bad.”

“He showed up ten minutes late every class, plays favorites, and is a blatant racist. He had me listed as ‘Aunt Jemima’ on a list he was using to assign group projects once. Like, what the fuck?”

Alex already hated this guy. “That’s bullshit! Did you tell somebody?”

Angelica snorts, tapping out a quiet beat on the locker. “No point. The administration loves Adams, especially since the superintendent is his brother, or cousin, or something. Nothing will get that man fired. He could go running down the halls naked and stab the principal in the chest with a machete, and they would still let him work here.”

Alex ignores the imagery and implores, “But if he barely teaches, didn’t you all fail? Don’t AP teachers get fired if the students fail the test?”

“I don’t know.  I mean, they _should_ , but who knows. Besides, none of us failed. The class set up this amazing studying network where we exchanged notes, scavenged the textbook for stuff that was _actually useful_ for hours, and begged kids from other schools to practically reteach us everything. Everyone in the class got a 4. Well, except for me.” She pushes off of the locker as the five minute warning bell rings and wraps an arm around Alex. “I got a 5.” She places a sloppy, lipstick stained kiss on his cheek, knowing that anyone who sees him will assume a parent did it. “See ya later, Peach Fuzz!” And with that, Angelica Schuyler is gone.

Alex shakes his head in semi-disbelief, before realizing what she’s done and frantically swipes the stain off his face. He shuts the locker, only slightly irritated, and is ready to go to his assigned homeroom when he hears his name being called from behind him. Had the voice belonged to anyone else, he probably would have considered continuing on his way, but he knows this voice, and turns around to meet the approaching form of a half put-together John Laurens. His dreads are loose, with half of them secured in a hair elastic while the other half swing free over his shoulders. His button-up shirt is misbuttoned, and only one leg of his khakis is rolled up. Though he wants to ask why he’s so dressed up, Alex cuts him some slack, as he figures this is probably the first time the poor guy hasn’t had to wear a uniform to school.

“Hey, what’s up? You look like you’ve been through hell and back.”

“I barely made it here alive. Even though I got my license a few weeks ago, my dad still won’t let me drive the car until I can ‘prove myself worthy’ or some shit. And, since this place is apparently _sooo_ out of the way from his job, he had to send for one of his buddies to drive me since his daughter goes here too. But, the ass took forever to get to my house, and once he actually picked me up was driving like a madman. He made this one really sharp turn and I accidentally elbowed his daughter in ribs…” He rubs a hand on his neck, bashfully. “If you come across a chick named Martha who looks kinda pissed off, tell her I’m sorry.” Alex chuckles, ignoring the voice in the back of his head telling him to leave lest he be forever labelled as the tardy kid who doesn’t care about his studies. _It’s just homeroom, and this is_ John _. I can schmooze whoever the teacher is later._

John’s face turns from mild concern to legitimate anxiety. He leans up against a locker, the same way Angelica had, and bites his lip that Alex was unashamedly already staring at. Whoops. “But, uh, who was that girl you were talking to?” Alex stiffens at this. Shit, he had seen him with Angelica. Meaning he saw the kiss. Did he think they were together? Why would it matter if he thought they were, though? It’s not as if John was his boyfriend or anything, as much as he wishes he was. But, then why does John look like he just caught him cheating? That doesn’t make sense, right?

Right?

“Alex?” John prompts, eyebrows scrunching up. Alex’s face goes blank in realization. Oh, right, he had been asked a question. He really needs to work on covering up his internal crises.

“That was my friend, Angelica. She gets her hair done at Ms. Martha’s. She’s a senior.” John’s features visibly relax at this, which only serves to further confuse Alex. “She’s just kinda affectionate. Speaking of, I don’t have anything on my face, right?”

“Nah, you look good. I mean, your face. Looks.” He groans, squinting off into the distance. “No, there isn’t anything on it.”

“So, I guess I won’t be seeing you until lunch, huh?”

“Yeah, I know. It must be so hard staying away from this face, right?”

Alex can feel himself blushing again, because goddammit, he’s got a point. “Shut it, fucktool. But, seriously, you should’ve taken AP Gov with me! It’s not too late to request a  change—“

“We’ve discussed this, Alex.”

“But it’s AP Gov! You’ll love it!”

“Oh boy, you’re one of those people that always feels the crippling need to mention that they’re taking AP classes, aren’t you?” John pivots so he’s still against the cool metal but facing Alex, who does the same, not unlike their positions during their first meeting.

“That would be me!”

“Well, unfortunately, we all can’t be you. I’m limiting myself to only one AP a year, so I chose AP Bio. Let me know when you finally start being crushed under the weight of your, like, five APs.”

Alex lightly shoves him. “It’s only three, fuckface.”

“These nicknames just get more and more endearing, my dear.” He kicks himself off of the locker and ruffles Alex’s short hair. “I s’pose we should head to homeroom, though, before we get marked as l--“ The late bell chooses this time ring, which Alex knows is just the universe’s way of saying “fuck you :)”.

The two boys make a dash for their respective homerooms, yelling, “Bye!” as they speed down opposite ends of the hall.

He’s only two minutes late when he finally reaches the classroom, but he knows that a lot can happen in two minutes. He quickly composes himself before he opens the door, hoping that perhaps the universe can actually help him out for once and let him sneak in unnoticed.

Nope, the universe definitely still hates him, as all eyes are on him as soon as he’s through the threshold. The teacher, a balding black man wearing an almost too crisp suit, is standing in front of the class, giving him a look that Alex translates as “sit your ass down,”. He licks his lips nervously and finds a seat in the second row. He slaps a palm to his forehead. _So much for schmoozing_.

“So, as I was saying,” the teacher begins. “I’m Mr. Washington and I will be your homeroom teacher for the year. We should be able to have a great time, as long as you follow the homeroom rules. “ He points at the various bulleted phrases on the board. “Be respectful, refrain from yelling, be _on time_ ,” he looks in Alex’s direction at this one, causing him to slouch slightly in his seat. “Eating is only allowed if you didn’t have breakfast already. And, yes, I know, there’s no way for me to prove whether or not you have, but I expect everyone in here to be honest with me. Speaking of honesty, I want you all to be able to talk to me about anything that is bothering you. I’m not the guidance counselor, but I feel that we should be able to forge a relationship where you feel like you can confide in me. But, don’t feel like you have to. My feelings won’t be hurt if you decide it’s too weird talking to a teacher about your problems.” He takes a seat and claps his hand together. A feeling of dread washes over Alex.

_God, please no. Anything but the—_

“So, now, I want each of you to tell me your name, what you did over the summer, and one special thing about you.”

_The get-to-know-you exercise._

As each student goes through, Alex can feel shame rising within him. All the other kids talk about their summer in Guam or how they’re an award winning horseback rider, while all Alex can say for himself is that he might have carpel tunnel after doing so many micro-braids over the summer. The kid in front of him, James Madison, goes on about how they spent the break at a huge youth writing conference in Atlanta, and Alex decides that he needs to make up something and fast.

“Uh, I’m Alex Hamilton and over the summer I…” _Think! Literally anything but doing hair!_ “Did an internship at the circuit court downtown?” It comes out more as a question, and the only reason he thought of it was because of one of the judicial system posters hanging up on one of the walls, but it sounds good enough. “And, something interesting about me is that I used to live in Haiti.” He doesn’t want to get more into it, and lets out a breath of relief when Washington moves on to the girl behind him instead of asking any questions like he did with some of the other students. He’s safe.

Well, that is until the period is over, and Washington stops him before he leaves the room. “Hamilton, was it?”

“Yeah, that’s me. Uh, did I do something wrong, sir?”

“No, no, not at all. I just found what you said about working at the courthouse to be the perfect opportunity to reach out to you about something.” Alex narrows his eyes. Did he know he was lying? Was this some sort of trap?

“You ever heard of Mock Trial?”

“Yeah,” Alex lies. He doesn’t want to sound as behind everyone else as he knows he is.

“Well, I think you might be a good addition to our team, since you already have experience. I run the team, and we meet up on Thursdays and Fridays. It’s not easy, and you can’t exactly be involved in any other after-school activities because of it, but, if you’re really interested in learning firsthand about the legal system, I think you should give it a shot.” He rests a firm, but surprisingly comforting hand on Alex’s shoulder. “If you want to sign up, I’d recommend doing it soon, since seats tend to fill up fast. People usually drop out a week into practices, though, so you shouldn’t have any problem getting in if you miss signing up for the interest meeting.” The bell rings, and Washington releases him. “You should head along now, Hamilton. Wouldn’t want you to be late to any more classes, now would we?” The tone of his voice tells Alex that he doesn’t mean this maliciously, and he smiles, bidding thanks as he rushes out of the door to his next class.

* * *

 

Alex is already sitting down at his desk in the front of the empty room when Angelica comes trudging in through the door. She has the face of a woman walking to her own funeral.

“Aw, don’t look so glum! At least you got me, right?” Alex asks, feigning the enthusiasm he wished he still had after the unbearably boring 1st period Trig class. Angelica glares at him, unamused, but nonetheless takes the seat next to him.

“Can you just talk me to death so I don’t have to go through this?” She requests before resting her head on the desk with a soft _thunk._

Alex shrugs. “No guarantees, but I can try. What do you know about Mock Trial?”

Angelica’s head rises so fast Alex is surprised she didn’t get whiplash. “Mock Trial is awesome. I’ve been doing it since the tenth grade, so I can show you the ropes, if you want. It’s a lot of work, but it looks _so_ good on college applications, trust me.” She starts twirling one of the many rings on her fingers.  “Or, at least, that’s what my dad tells me. But, don’t just do it because of college, or you’ll want to quit after the first meet.”

“Sounds good. I’ll try to sign up during lunch.”

Alex always felt that law would be a good back-up option if politics don’t work out (which it will, he knows). He knows that it’s more than just arguing—even though he’s very good at arguing—and always wanted to prosecute the bad guys; the _real_ bad guys, like Wall Street white collar cons and untouchable killer cops. He’s always wanted to give them a taste of their own medicine, as spiteful as that may sound. Mock Trial would be good for him; a nice first step into the world of justice. He's snapped out of his lamenting by the door slamming open, revealing a flood of students, but still no teacher. 

“Bonjour, y’all,” greets a tall, pasty teen donning a snapback on his head. He’s followed by the Madison kid from earlier with a girl on his arm. The girl is petite with light brown skin and a look on her face that tells Alex that she’d rather be anywhere else but here.

“Oh boy,” mutters Angelica under her breath. “Get ready for some bullshit, starting in three…two…”

The guy, upon noticing Angelica slowly sinking in her chair, releases the girl in his arms and practically pushes her aside. “Well, hello, Angelica Schuyler! I feel like it’s been eons since I’ve last seen my sweet thang.” He swaggers over to where the two are seated, lifting his feet up so his shiny, brand new Yeezy's are in plain view. He leans over on Angelica’s desk, large hands splayed out. “How you doin’, girl? You look fifty shades of gorgeous. You still talking to that Church guy? ‘Cause, if not, I’m always available.”

Angelica takes a deep breath, and sits up high in her seat, looking the boy dead in the eyes. “Tom, I’ve been telling you this since sophomore year: you and me? Never gonna happen.” She places a bright, obviously fake smile on her face. “I see you haven’t changed much. Ain’t that sad? I don’t know why I thought living it up in the Alps over the summer drinking $1500 booze would change you.”

Tom lets out a surprised laugh. “Aw, I see you’ve been checking my Instagram, huh? France was lovely, thanks for asking, baby. The fam wanted to do a whole European tour, but I got ‘em to reconsider, didn’t I, Sally?” He directs the question to the back of the room, at the girl he pushed away, who is now applying a thick coat of foundation to what appears to be a hickey on her neck. She raises the corners of her lips in a failed attempt at a smile.

“Screw off to the nearest Waffle House parking lot, Jefferson. It’ll remind you of home.”

“Mm! Bless your cold, bitter heart, Angel.” He seems to notice Alex for the first time in the past few minutes, and turns to lean on his desk. “And just who is this? What’s good, brotha?” He slaps a hand on his shoulder, which Alex rips off with a quickness.

“Don’t fucking touch me. And, I’m not your brother.

“Ooh, there’s a temper on this one! Where you from, man? And, I don’t mean where you live, because it’s obvious from your attire that you frequent the crackhouse on 5th avenue, but where are you _really_ from? Your accent is weird as fu—“

Alex is up in a flash, face so close to that of Jefferson’s that their noses are almost touching. “Listen, you wannabe Eminem, Colonel Sanders-sounding ass, MTV circa 2008- _reject_ , don’t you dare, for one second think that I won’t blast your pale ass to the next century, where society may finally be progressive enough to indict you on all the counts of fuckery that my friend and I have had the misfortune to witness today.  Please, do everyone a favor, and never talk to me again.” And just like that, he’s back in his seat, his eyes not leaving the other’s boy’s. The class is almost disturbingly silent.

Unfortunately, that is the exact time that the teacher decides to walk into the room. “Well, I can see we’re off to a good start.” The room comes alive again, with students in the back of the room cackling and typing away at their phones to spread the news about what just happened. Jefferson’s eyes narrow as he scurries back to his seat, silently fuming. Alex feels a smirk forming on his face until he sees the disapproving eye of Mr. Adams. “And, who would you be, young man?”

Angelica’s eyes are boring straight into his head, as if daring him to say some smart-ass jibe that could get him detention. (Which he wasn’t going to say, in the first place. Probably.) “Alex Hamilton, sir.”

Adams raises an eyebrow in disdain. “Interesting. It looks like I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Mr. Hamilton.”

Alex’s nostrils begin to flare up, but he doesn’t say a word.

_Fuck first impressions._

* * *

 

The fire brewing inside of him as yet to subside by the time 4th period swings around. As excited as he wants to be for AP US Government and Politics, his interactions with both Jefferson and Adams have left him with nothing but rage. For the rest of the class, instead of going through the syllabus, or discussing their summer reading or _something_ , Adams had yammered on and on about his own summer vacation, shooting Alex a nasty look every now and then. As much as he wanted to stand up and leave, he couldn’t risk getting in trouble on the first day. His foster dad would certainly not be pleased if he received a call from the principal’s office. He had spent the entirety of his 3rd period Music History class plotting Adams’ demise.

Needless to say, he’s more than a little pissed when he stomps into Mr. Washington’s room, all but throwing his books at the same desk he sat in during homeroom. He plops into the chair, and sends a quick text to Angelica as Washington hasn’t arrived yet.

**A.Ham: im so fuckin mad lmao...but I came up with a plan to frame adams for arson so**

**Schuyler ;): Please dont do this. U cant become president if u have a criminal record remember?**

**A.Ham: ur point is??**

The rest of the room fills up at this point, along with Washington in all his authoritative glory. Alex quickly learns that his homeroom demeanor isn’t much different from his teacher one, as he is just as quiet and commanding as he was earlier. He writes his name on the whiteboard in blocky letters, and turns to face the seated students.

“Hello, class. My name is Mr. Washington and I will be teaching you the logistics of the United States government. We will be learning about the institutions that make this country’s political engine tick. Though this isn’t a history course, history is necessary to understanding the past, the present, and the future, so we will be discussing certain historical events in detail.” He begins to pass out thick stacks of paper that Alex recognizes as the syllabus.

“As this is an advanced placement course, you all will be learning at a college level. I also fully expect you to be analytical, and ready for debate. There will be plenty of writing in this course, and you will see on the syllabus that I do not accept any late work. Do you think the president gets extended deadlines on proposals?” He begins to pace with his hands behind his back, making sure to stare every student in the eye at least once. When his eyes catch Alex’s, he gives a polite nod.

“I will be treating you all like the adults that you are soon to be. I will respect you and your opinions as if you are peers, and I expect you to give me the same respect in return. I know politics can be taboo, but I feel as if we can’t be open about it until everyone is prepared to actually _listen_ to each other, not just wait to talk. You all are the future of this country, whether current politicians want to believe it or not. This is a class where you will learn about what you want from your country, and also, what your country wants from you.” He stops walking and takes a seat on top of his desk. “So, any questions?”

Alex’s hand shoots up immediately. He speaks before Washington can even give him the go ahead. “In regards to the writing, will we be doing mostly opinion pieces on contemporary politics or informative pieces on historical politics? I mean, both are fine, I guess, but if this is supposed to be helping us for the future, I think the contemporary would be better. Also,” without taking a breath, Alex begins to pick apart every single point in the syllabus (“Presidential outlines? No offense, but I see no point in that,”) and effectively causing everyone in the class to pray for 5th period lunch to be their saving grace.

Washington, true to his word, does not interrupt Alex so he can continue on with the class, despite how much he obviously wants to. He even answers most of the questions, when Alex pauses for long enough for him to get a word in. Though not all the answers satisfy him (“The outlines will help you in the long run, Hamilton,”), just the fact that Washington was listening to him at all was almost enough.

Alex is about to ask one more arbitrary question when the bell rings, which frees the other 21 students in the class. As they rush out of the room in a herd of hormones and grumbling stomachs, Alex takes his time to pack up his supplies, leaving him alone with Washington. The teacher erases his name off of the board, and starts to close his briefcase when he says, “Hamilton, a word?”

 _Fuck,_ he screwed up. So, maybe he had been talking too much, but they were all reasonable questions that anyone would have had! Alex swallows down a gulp and slowly steps over to Washington’s desk, gripping the straps of his backpack like a lifeline. He silently prays that he won’t be kicked out of the class for being a nuisance. He begins to apologize when Washington raises a stopping hand.

“Don’t be sorry, son. I like the fact that you care enough about the subject to be so critical. However, I would have appreciated it if you had saved those questions for after class?” Alex can feel himself stiffening at the word “son”, but he ignores it, for now. “Regardless, you showed initiative today. I can’t wait to see that same initiative in Mock Trial, if you still decide to join.”

Alex is practically bouncing with joy. He made a good impression on Washington without even really trying, and was probably going to be accepted into his good graces even more through Mock Trial. “Yes, sir, I plan on signing up soon, just like you said! I can’t wait to get started!” Washington chuckles at his enthusiasm, and sits back on the desk.

“You have any more questions, before I head out?” Alex nods, and proceeds to badger him with questions about the course, the club, and about Washington himself. He feels his phone buzzing in his pocket, but ignores it in favor of Washington’s insight.

* * *

 

He knew this was a good school (or at least a not completely shitty one), but Alex always felt as if the one constant of all schools, no matter where they were or how they were funded, was terrible, no good, very bad cafeteria food. His old school was a prime example. The hotdogs had a shade of yellow to them, the baked beans were putrid, and the pizza tasted like cardboard covered with spray cheese.

So, imagine his surprise when he’s faced with possibly the most appetizing public school dining options tax dollars could buy.

They’re serving burgers that looked…fully cooked? And fries! Alex didn’t even know that schools served French fries. He’s in heaven. It’s only when one of the lunch ladies clears their throat that Alex realizes he’s been staring at the food for at least two minutes.

 “Hey, Alex! Over here!” His attention switches from the surprisingly not-disgusting food to Angelica’s form waving him over from a table not too far from the lunch-line. She’s sitting with the girls Alex had seen her with earlier that day, and he watches as one of them, a rather disgruntled Filipina, seems to tell her to stop being so loud. The other girl, a short Native American, is scribbling words onto a Chemistry worksheet at the speed of light, nearly knocking down her can of soda every time she reaches the end of a line. Alex feels a chuckle rising in his throat—he can tell when someone’s assignment is due next period.

He gives Angelica a salute of acknowledgment and quickly pays for his food, ignoring the look of contempt the lunch lady is giving him for taking so long. He runs the few yards to the table, and settles down at the chair directly across from Angelica.

She leans forward in her seat. “So, how was Gov?”

Alex sighs. “Everything I’ve ever dreamed of and more.”

“I’m gonna assume you liked Washington?”

“He’s a genius! Honestly, after dealing with that walking dildo Adams earlier, I was seriously reconsidering the competence of the staff here. But Washington is like…” For once he finds himself speechless.

“ _Everything you’ve ever dreamed of and more_?” She quotes, an amused glint to her eye.

“Exactly!”

Angelica laughs as she pushes aside her lunch tray. “Alright, Alex’s mancrush on Mr. Washington aside—“

“I do not have a crush on—“

“I don’t think any of you have been acquainted! Alex, these are my baby sisters Eliza and Peggy,” she indicates which one is which with a nod of the head. “Girls, this is Alex Hamilton. I may have mentioned him once or twice as the ‘loudmouth hairdresser with the bug-eyes’?” The three girls start cackling at this, causing Alex to cross his arms.

“You won’t be saying that next time I’m in charge of doing your hair. I hear that the whole shaved look is in these days.” He smirks as Angelica’s eyes widen in horror and her sisters laugh even louder.

“Don’t you dare--you’re kidding!”

“I’m deadass serious, Angelica. Dead. Ass.” He pauses in his taunting when something clicks in his head. “Wait, you’re all sisters?”

With a roll of the eyes, Angelica begins, as if she had to explain this numerous times before, “If you must be technical, we’re half-sisters. Our dad kept shooting blanks so our mom turned to a sperm bank. Peggy’s our dad’s only bio-daughter. That answer satisfy you?”

It did. Despite the different shades and facial structures of the three girls, there’s something eerily similar about them. They share the same pointed, long nose, bushy eyebrows, and incredibly dark eyes. However, even where they are the same, they’re different, as Eliza’s eyelids are covered in a light pink eyeshadow and eyeliner that appear to have been drawn on rather painstakingly. Angelica’s eye makeup is dark and smudged, while Peggy’s glasses cover up any possible evidence of makeup at all. Still they stare at him with one raised eyebrow each, terrifying Alex in the process. _Yes, definitely sisters_ , he concludes.

(Angelica will later inform him that the kids at school used to call them the “rainbow children”. That was, until she punched one of the kids in the face. Ever since then, people usually keep quiet about their ethnicities.)

Alex takes a bite out of his burger, and is suddenly awash with bliss. _Dreams do come true,_ he thinks to himself as he looks around the cafeteria. He spots a condiments station on the other side. _Perfect_. In the meantime, he also notices the amount of tables that are overflowing with friends, with some people choosing to sit on another’s lap instead of just sitting at a table farther away. “How come y’all only sit with each other?” It’s out before he’s able to put his already faulty brain-to-mouth filter to use.

Peggy shrugs as she erases an equation from her sheet. “Because of what happened last year.”

Angelica’s mouth falls open. “Peggy!”

Eliza bristles, clearly uncomfortable by the whole ordeal. She quickly supplements with, “It’s not that we don’t have friends, it’s just easier if we stick together at lunch, is all.”

“Oh, sorry, yeah, I get it. Uh,” he looks down at his burger as an awkward silence falls over the table. “So, I’m gonna get some ketchup for this bad boy, aight?” He scurries away quickly with his tail between his legs. Angelica takes a break from giving Peggy the eye to notice that Alex is gone.

“I told you he was cute,” she mutters, staring at her acrylic nails rather than gawk at the retreating form of Alex Hamilton like her sisters are (or, at least Eliza is. Peggy hasn’t looked up from her paper once).

“I call first dibs,” whispers Eliza, eagerly.

“What? How do you get first dibs when I’ve known him for a whole year longer than you?”

“Well, of course you’ve known him longer! You’ve been hoarding him all to yourself at that hair salon. Y’know, after the first time you told us about him, I had half a mind to storm the place.”

“Honey, no offense, but you don’t exactly have the hair texture to be waltzing up into Ms. Martha’s.”

“I mean I wouldn’t necessarily be getting my hair done, but who’s to say that I couldn’t just be in the neighborhood, supporting my sister in one of her six hour endeavors?” Eliza takes a pointed sip of her watered-down lemonade. “If you’d just been generous enough to give me the address…” The teen thinks to herself for a moment. “Plus, you have Church, don’t you?”

Angelica rolls her eyes, sticking her hand in front of Eliza’s face. “ _Anyway_ , what do you think, Peg? I have all rights to Alex, right?”

“Look, if I don’t finish this by the end of lunch, Franklin will kill my ass. Literally.” She brushes a strand of light brown hair out of her face. “He’s cool but, he’s not ‘turn in your twenty pages of summer work anytime you want!’ cool. Go figure out your weird custody battle later.”

Angelica huffs. “Fine. You shouldn’t have waited so long to start your summer work anyway.”

Peggy looks up from the paper for a split second before returning her attention to it once more. “Is this really coming from you? You’ve had senioritis since middle school.”

Eliza nudges her in the side. “She’s got a point, Angel. Remember that time you didn’t start your science fair project until the morning it was due?”

“Yes. I also recall that project winning 1st place, so both of you shut up.” She leans in closer to whisper to Eliza, “He’s still mine until further negotiations can be made.”

The middle Schuyler sister nods curtly, just as Alex makes his way back to the table, bouncing with energy.

“So, how come you didn’t tell me the food here was so good?”

Peggy stops writing. “This shit is considered ‘good’?”

Eliza shakes her head at her sister’s bluntness. “What Peggy means is that, compared to our last school, the food here is a little subpar.”

“Not to sound like the spoiled rich girl I am, but I miss baked ziti Tuesdays,” Angelica frowns, staring dejectedly at her tray.

“Baked ziti Tuesdays? What, did you have shrimp scampi Wednesdays too?!”

Eliza lays her hand on her cheek, smiling softly. “No silly, Wednesday was Empanada day. Shrimp scampi was served on Fridays.”

Alex returns the smile. “Well, pardon me. Here I was getting all excited to eat something that’s actually edible for once, while you’ve been eating like royalty. Where’s your old school and how soon can I transfer?” Eliza giggles, her nose scrunching up in a way that Alex can only define as _adorable_.

Angelica, always observant, can see the look in his eyes. Perhaps negotiation will have to take place sooner than she originally thought.

Eliza is in the middle of telling him more about her prep school days when Alex checks the large clock on the cafeteria wall. “Shit, I gotta go sign up for Mock Trial before lunch is over. I’ll see you lovely ladies later.” Though he is talking to all of them, his eyes rest on Eliza, who is staring back at him with heart eyes. Angelica rolls her eyes for what feels like the thirtieth time that day.

“Peace out, Peach Fuzz. Don’t get into no trouble!” She grins as he walks away, saying “dammit, Angelica!” and pushing through the doors of the cafeteria.

Alex finds the sign-up sheet easily enough. It’s tacked in the middle of a row of several badly decorated bulletin boards. He stares at the Comic Sans type of the words and decides that not even George Washington is above using questionable means of gathering a following.

HAVE AN INTEREST IN LAW? ENJOY PARTICIPATING IN THEATRICS? ABLE TO PARTAKE IN CRITICAL THINKING?

WELL, MOCK TRIAL MAY BE THE CLUB FOR YOU!

INTEREST MEETING AFTER SCHOOL ON THURSDAY IN ROOM 1-776

BE PREPARED TO TAKE NOTES! :)

Washington hadn’t been kidding when he said that people sign up fast; the sheet was already halfway filled. As soon as he’s done writing his name in rather large, sinewy font, he feels a tap on his shoulder that initially makes his blood run cold.

He spins around, fists up, to meet John’s freckled face.

The taller boy puts his hands up in defense. “Whoa, who are you squaring up to, it’s just me!”

“Sorry, sorry.” Alex clears his throat, embarrassed. “I’m not the best person to be sneaking up on.”

John makes the “OK” sign with his hands. “Duly noted. So, how’s your day been? You get my text?” Alex shakes his head—he had been too busy talking to Washington. “I was telling you to swing by room 212 for lunch. You make any friends yet?” Only enemies, he wants to reply, but then he’ll sound like one of those “I came here to win” types from a reality show. Which, he is, on the low, but John doesn’t need to know that just yet.

“Not really, unless you count Angelica’s sisters,” he says instead.

John snorts. “Nah, man, fuck that. Let me introduce you to two of my friends. You’re gonna love these dudes.” John leads him down the hall and into a small, empty office where two students are sitting atop a cherry wood desk. The taller of the two, who has to be at least an inch or two over six feet tall, leaps off the desk and grasps Alex’s hand.

“Allo,” the teen says. “My name is—“

“Really long, don’t bother wasting your breath on it, babe,” interrupts the other one. He slides off the desk as well. “This is Lafayette. But, if you get on their really, really good side, you get to call them Gilbert.”

“No one gets to call me Gilbert, tu bite,” Lafayette says in a thick French accent. Alex brightens at this, but he can tell that the senior is probably from a European francophone country, if not France itself. “But my mate is correct. My only expectation is that you refer to me using your ‘they’ and ‘them’ pronouns. I am nonbinary. I know that this will take getting used to, but I implore that you try your hardest to adhere to my wishes.”

“Hold up, what?” It’s not that Alex hasn’t heard of people dropping the skewed concept of the gender binary altogether, because he has. However, he’s never met anyone in real life who was nonbinary, and even if they were, they were never so open about it.

John frowns. “Hey, please don’t be an asshole about this, Alex.”

“I’m not!  But you called him—fuck, _them_ , ‘dude’.”

“I call everybody ‘dude’, dude.”

Lafayette grins, good-naturedly. “It is alright, you do not need to worry about it, mate.”

Their English isn’t bad, per say; it’s just incredibly formal, and the occasional sliding in of a British slang term leads Alex to believe that Lafayette learned the majority of their English out of a British written, French school-mandated text book. 

The guy next to Lafayette is short and stocky, wearing a blue bandana Tupac-style around his head. Alex worries for two seconds that it’s gang-affiliated before remembering what side of town he’s on.  He silently prays that the guy never decides to go over to the east side with it on, unless he’s packing.

“The name’s Hercules Mulligan, no if’s, and’s, or but’s. Call me anything but my name and you’re catching these hands.” He makes a point of this by cracking his knuckles while staring dead into Alex’s eyes. Shit, maybe he is packing.

“Why would anyone call you anything else? Hercules is a boss name.”

Mulligan’s façade falls quickly, his face morphing along with his dimpled smile. “Thank you! I’ve been saying that since the kids in my fifth grade class kept calling me the name of every other mythology hero but Hercules. Do I look like a Hermes to you? Or a fucking Hades? It’s plain disrespectful.”

Lafayette pats their friend on the back, seemingly accustomed to Hercules’ name-despairing. Their hand falls when Hercules gives them a look, nodding indiscreetly toward Alex and John. Though perplexed at first, recognition dawns on their face and they step even closer to the two. “Do either of you wish to participate in theater?”

Alex snorts. _No fucking way_ , he thinks to himself. Plays always made him want to fall asleep and musicals usually made him beg for sweet release halfway through the first act. John, on the other hand, is nodding vigorously.

“Hell yeah! I was in a production of ‘The Merchant of Venice’ last year. And, the year before that, I was Seaweed in ‘Hairspray’.” He refrains from telling them that he only got the role because he was the only black guy in the entire school that was interested in theater. He still was the best fucking Seaweed Westwood Preparatory School for Boys had ever seen.

Hercules freaks out at this, “Oh shit, me too! I mean, I wasn’t Seaweed, or actually _in it_ , but we put it on at my community theater and I was in charge of the costumes. I do that here, too, so if y’all get roles in our next show, you can count on me to make you look sexy as hell.” He pauses for a second. “Or, if you piss me off, I can put _very_ inconveniently placed holes in your costumes that you won’t notice until opening night.”

Lafayette giggles. “It is true. He did the same thing last year when we performed ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’ and the lad playing Algernon called him useless.” They cover their mouth with a hand to hide their large teeth. “Let us just say that it is a good idea to leave Hercules alone.”

“Damn straight,” he wraps an arm around Lafayette’s waist, pulling them closer. Alex’s eyebrows rise, taken aback by the open affection. At his old school, the only openly out gay kid ended up transferring to a different school because the bullying was so bad. Hypermasculinity was highly encouraged, meaning that any male friendship that was even slightly considered affectionate was immediately bashed by the masses.  Were Hercules and Lafayette always like this, or was it just because the only other people around were two new students that no one really knew? He desperately wants to ask if they’re a thing.

“What’s the show?” He finds himself asking instead.

“We’re doing Little Shop of Horrors, one of my favorites! And, after begging the theater department head, they’ve allowed it to be a student-run show! Since it is my final year, I will be acting as the director, of course.” They preen a bit at this, rubbing their painted nails over their chest. “So, I am also in charge of casting. You need to audition, both of you. To be frank, we need as much help as we can get.”

John’s head tilts to the side a bit. “What do you mean? Y’all don’t get big turnouts for auditions?”

Lafayette waves a dismissive hand. “Not at all! We have no problem with getting a full cast. But the casts we have had in recent years have been, well…” They put a closed fist to their chin, face deep in concentration, as if trying to find the words. “We are trying to, eh, diversify the theater department. It all came to a head when we put on ‘The Wiz’ for our spring show last year and only two characters were black.” They make a grimace. “I told the director that we might as well just do the ‘Wizard of Oz’, but he insisted. That is _not_ happening again, I will make sure of it before I graduate.”

Though it was for a good cause, Alex honestly could not see himself being of any assistance. He didn’t _do_ musicals. The only musical he’s ever seen all the way through was _Dreamgirls_ , but that was just the movie and it was 99.9% because of Beyoncé. He wasn’t going to stand up in front of half the school in some ridiculous costume (despite how sexy Hercules may claim it would be) dancing and singing about his feelings when there was _work_ to do. Plus, Washington had said it himself: if he wanted to be in Mock Trial, he would have to say goodbye to any other extracurriculars. As he prepares to say as much to Lafayette, John cuts him off with, “I got you, 100 percent. We’ll be there at auditions, right Alex?” He proceeds to fuck Alex up even more by flashing one of those Certified John Laurens’ Mega Watt Smiles (Guaranteed to Destroy Alexander Hamilton or Your Money Back!) and looks down expectantly at him. Alex’s entire world is moving in slow motion, and whatever excuse he was about to give dies in his throat. _Goddammit_.

“Yeah, you can count on us, don’t worry ‘bout it,” is what he hears himself saying, which somehow makes John’s smile grow impossibly brighter. He forces his eyes to break away from the tragically beautiful sight right before he is crushed next to John in a tight hug by Lafayette.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! You have no idea what this means to me! Give me your numbers so I can text you when auditions are being held and so you can be the first to know when the cast list is up.” They release the pair and hands them both their phone for them to enter their contact info as Hercules watches on with fondness. Alex decides that he’ll ask one of them about their thing later.

For now, he has to figure out how the hell to get himself out of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so there u have it! idk when ill update next especially since i might have to deal with play rehearsals come next week (fingers crossed!) but it'll definitely be before the month is out!
> 
> translations:  
> tu bite: you dick (or something with a similar connotation)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry y'all this chapters kinda slow. My laptop w/ all the notes for the next chapters got stolen so I kinda had to rewrite this chapter, so sorry if its kinda meh :/
> 
> Also I've decided that this fic probably takes place in the DMV area?? Idk which place, cause idk if mock trial rules differ by state but I'm basing it off MD rules so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ probably lean more towards DC tho bc of all the political stuff in future chapters

* * *

The rest of the day goes by in a hitch, or at least in a way that could be described as not completely garbage. Giving Lafayette his number ends up simultaneously being the best and worst decision of his life, seeing as soon as the newfound group of four breaks for 6th period, Alex's phone is bombarded with messages. Most of them are various forms of thanks, but towards the end of the day, most of them are what he assumes is Lafayette's way of "helping".

 

**Laf: so do you have interest in doing a song from little shop or will u sing a song from another musical?**

**A.Ham: y do u ask?**

**Laf: i may have a few suggestions :)**

**A.Ham: surprise me**

    **Laf:** **https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8U-5DZDHNUw &list=RD...** **I think if u want to he Seymour this would be excellent!!**

**A.Ham: who the fuk is seymour again**

**A.Ham: no offense i have no idea what little shop is even about**

**Laf: no problem! seymour is the lead, he's awkward and nerdy and once u really think about it, an ass**

**Laf: but I love him anyway!**

**A.Ham: thx but no thx fam**

**A.Ham: im not lead material???? like at all???**

**A.Ham: got any other suggestions?**

**Laf: u could be Mr. Mushnik?**

**A.Ham: im on the Wikipedia page for it and he's still a main character NEXT**

**Laf: .........Audrey 2?**

**A.Ham: the plant has lines**

**Laf: ;)**

Thursday eventually rolls around without (much) incident. He had only exchanged a few quick, heated words with Jefferson every now and then, which, considering, is pretty damn extraordinary. Angelica helps him acclimate himself to the highways and byways of Ashburton High, and gives him the occasional tip on surviving the wrath of John Adams.

"Turns out, if your handwriting is sloppy enough, he doesn't even _read_ the timed-writings. He just slaps a 93% on it without even trying. Don't ask why it's a 93. No one knows." She stirs her blue crab soup absentmindedly. Alex still eats with the Schuylers at lunch, if not only to round them out so they don't look like such outcasts. However, Eliza hadn't been lying when she said they had friends, as Angelica is often spotted with a group of people hanging into her every word at any given time throughout the day. Eliza and Peggy certainly have less companions than their older sister, but still enough to never be considered a loner. As much as he wants to know just why they can't sit with any of these people who clearly enjoy their presence, he doesn't want to offend the girls, lest he receive an ass-whooping so great he may not be able to move ever again.

John continues to invite him to the office (which Alex _still_ doesn't know belongs to)  for lunch, but he always politely declines. He figures that indulging himself with John's presence too often might give him silly things like "Hopes" and "Dreams". They still always meet up with each other in the morning in front of Alex's locker, and they always text, so it's not as if he's avoiding John of anything.

Okay, maybe he is. But, after agreeing to doing the musical just because John smiled at him, Alex realizes that he needs to start curbing the weird hold John has on him. It didn't make a lick of sense to the boy.

Regardless, he still finds himself fantasizing about taking him to a place that isn't as controlled as school or the salon; a place where they can just kick back and _be_ without fear of rejection or interruption. A place where they can talk about what's really eating at them and know that what they're saying is being understood. A place where Alex can adorn John's hair with flowers (those expensive ones that you have flown in from, like, Japan or some shit, not the pathetic ones that grow in the community garden across from Alex's apartment), and watch as the sun catches his freckles just so-- 

Whoever said "absence makes the heart grow fonder" was a dick, he decides.

* * *

Angelica has had it. She's Done, with a capital D. The entire world around her could erupt in flames and she wouldn't care.

She hits the "ignore" button of her FaceTime app for the sixth time that day and takes the extra step of turning off her notifications completely. She refuses to be distracted during Mock Trial.

She struts into room 1-176 gracefully enough, before dropping the act and dropping herself into her usual chair in the very back of the room next to an Aaron Burr whose nose is deep in a book.

"Hey, Angelica." He smiles, pleasantly, book immediately forgotten. "I really like your shirt, it brings out the color of your Black AMEX card. Also, your eyes."

"Burr, I'm not in the mood," is her grunted response.

Aaron's eyebrows furrow in confusion. "I thought we had a thing going on? I flirt with you, you act like you're not flattered, we laugh, and call it a day?"

"It's only the first week and you are like the twentieth guy that won't leave me alone. Don't test me, because I'm about to explode." She makes a motion with her hands miming said explosion, flailing around enough that Aaron catches the sweet smell of her perfume.

He makes a clicking sound with his teeth, and pouts sympathetically. "Oh...is this about Church?"

Angelica's eyes are wild. "Why does _everyone_ keep bringing up Church? It's not important! He doesn't exist to me!"

"Who's Church?" Asks Alex, sliding into the seat next to her. She groans at the ceiling and silently begs for it to collapse on all of them. He quickly recognizes Aaron. "Whoa, hey man! I didn't know you went here."

"I could say the same for you. Since when--"

"Since Monday! I transferred." 

"Ah, well, that's nice," is all Aaron says before returning to his book. Alex frowns. _Okay then._

He’s about to delve into just why Aaron’s being so cold when Washington comes jogging into the room.

"Hey, everybody!" Calls Washington, who is more jovial than Alex has ever seen him. He has an extra pep in his step, which leads Alex to guess that perhaps he had gotten some really good news, or something. But, this assumption dies when the other members return the greeting with one just as casual, with some people even crying "G-Wash!"

_The fuck?_

"I am so excited to start yet another year of Mock Trial with you all. After our big 2nd place seeding last year, I am positive we can come back with enough power to finally knock Carta Magnet School down from 1st place. Who's with me?" This is answered with much applause from all of the former members, as the potential ones only clap quietly. 

"To all of you who are here to test the waters of Mock Trial: welcome! You probably know me, since I teach at least one class in every grade, but if you don't, I'm George Washington, head of the social studies department. My office, if you have any questions after the meeting, is room 212." Alex's eyebrows rise as it dawns on him that the room he keeps getting invited to is actually Washington's. Does he know that his office is being used every day during 5th period? Would he be pissed?

"So, any of our veterans want to give some of the new kids a taste?"

As if the world wasn't already against him, Tom Jefferson is the first out of his chair, shoving past several freshmen as he makes his way to the front of the room. "How y'all doin'? Had a good day? Getting settled in here at Ashburton?" He directs these questions at the freshmen, and even seems to give a bit of an acknowledging nod towards Alex, before bellowing, "Well, not for long! You _thought_ you'd be able to cruise through this year, maybe join a few clubs to make mommy and daddy proud. Think again! Mock Trial will _ruin your life_. Your social life is 100% done-zo. You hear me, piglets?! You ain't going to _no_ parties this year! You're gonna have to get your drunken karaoke fix elsewhere." With this, six of the misinformed youths flee in horror. Where were they supposed to sing Spice Girls songs while tripping on acid now?

"Jefferson, please stop scaring the newcomers away."

"What?! I'm doing all y'all a civic duty. Everybody knows there can only be so many people to a team. If we needle down the fresh meat from the jump, tryouts are completely unnecessary!"

"Tryouts?" Alex whispers to Angelica, who sighs and whispers back that it should be explained eventually.

"Contrary to your opinion, the greatest analytical mind may be possessed by what you see as 'fresh meat'. Say, let's take...Hamilton, for example. Hamilton, you mind coming up?" Alex gulps but steps through the crowded room to where Washington is standing. 

"Sir?" 

"Hamilton here is quickly becoming one of my most...hm, let's say _thorough_ students. He challenges almost everything I say. Though classes have only been in session long enough for me to have given out just one writing assignment in my AP Government class, Hamilton has shown exceptional hold over the English language." He tilts his head a little. "Not a very _concise_ hold, but laudable nonetheless." "He has something to bring to this team that I don't think anyone else here has: real world experience. Hamilton, will you tell us about your time at the courthouse over the summer?"

"My what at the who?" _Wait, he means the--_ "Oh yeah, um. It was mostly filing, that kinda stuff. Nothing special, really." 

"Who was your supervisor?"

"I, gosh, it was _so_ long ago. I've never been good with remembering names--"

"I've known most of the folks at the courthouse for years. Describe them to me; I'll probably be able to put a name to the face."

 _Well shit._ "Um, he was really...tall!" Alex scavenges his mind for some more generic descriptors. "Very official. Taught me a lot. He--"

"Wait, did this guy have an accent? Eastern European? He said he was in charge of some of the interns this year, but if it wasn't him it could have been Knox..."

"Sure," breaths out Alex.

Washington crosses his arms, completely zeroed in on Alex. "To who? Von Steuben--the friend I was telling you about, or Knox?"

"The first guy? I mean, yes definitely Von Steuben, how could I have forgotten!"

The teacher’s face breaks out into a full-on grin. "He's hilarious right?"

"He had us laughing for days, sir." Alex has no idea who “he” or “us” is, but rolls with it the phoniest way he knows how.

"Oh, I hope he didn't tell you the joke about the--"

Alex cuts him off with a "yeah, yeah!" And the two start laughing--not normal laughter, but the kind of laugh that you only hear Old Rich White Men™ make when they're joking about their trophy wives while playing golf. Or something.

 _God, I'm so fake,_ is all Alex can think as he wipes a nonexistent tear from his eye.

“Alright, enough of that,” Washington begins, a hint of laughter still in his oaky voice. He reaches into one of the drawers of his desk and emerges with stacks of papers. "Here are the case files, everyone. Now, for each team, there are a total of 12 members: Six attorneys, four eyewitnesses, and two expert witnesses. In Mock Trial, we divide in half to prepare as both the prosecution and the defense for a case. If you have a particular preference for which side you'd like to prepare for, just let me know." He scans the room, silently counting the heads. "Since it looks like there are twenty of us, tryouts will have to be held--" 

"No they don't!" Jefferson interjects. He stares down the rest of the freshmen. "Scram, toddlers. There's always next year."

"Jefferson, you know that tryouts will be held just to decide who acts as attorney and who as witness, even if we have the exact amount of people."

"Can't we just draw straws like last year?" 

"We _could,_ but I think our performance at finals last year can attest to the fact that that wasn't the best idea."

"That was John mcfreaking Jay's fault! I told you I'd take his place, but—" 

"Let's just stay on the safe side, this time, alright? I'm sure you'll be opening attorney again--"

"But, I don't want to open. I want to _close,_ ” Jefferson whines. 

"Jefferson, please sit down, before I put you on probation again." Jefferson trudges back to his seat, muttering under his breath the whole way.

"Alright, notebooks out, everyone. Here's how tryouts are going to go: if you wish to be a witness, you’ll have to memorize and perform from a scripted testimony that I’ll be posting on the school website later tonight.  For attorneys, it's a little bit harder, as you not only have to question a witness, but also give a speech of your own that is supposed to be reminiscent of an opening remark. I’ll post some topics tonight, also. Witnesses, your role on this team is almost entirely acting—mostly improv. You'll get a basic of outline of things to say--some information will be superfluous, some you'll need to emphasize. Though you can't make up anything—that's perjury—you should be able to infer and elaborate on some things. The attorneys on the opposing side will try to catch you on small inconsistencies, so you should be able to know your character inside and out." He exhales and cracks a small smile. "Attorneys, however, have it rough. There's no real guidelines for how you work. You have to know _everything_ in that case file. Even if it doesn't seem important at the time, believe me, it will come up."

Washington clasps his hands behind his back and observes the students, studying their faces for any sort of reaction. "Tryouts will be held next Thursday, hopefully that will give you enough time to memorize your individual parts." He grabs his briefcase and holds the door open. "You can head on out, now. Remember, report back here next week with your materials!" Well, they definitely don’t need to be told twice, as everyone is up as soon as the words are out of his mouth.

"And, everyone, please don't listen to Jefferson. Though it is true that this club takes a lot of your time, you'll still be able to have a social life. However, I wouldn't recommend you--what is it that the kids say--'turn up' too much." This earns a groan from everyone as they file out of the room. He follows after them, leaving Angelica and Alex behind.  

As Angelica is trying to follow the rest of the eager students out, Alex grabs her by the strap of her Vera Bradley backpack. "Angelica, you gotta help me." 

She shakes off her initial irritation, suddenly alert. "What for? You in trouble? My dad won't let you hide out at our place but I know a guy--"

He grips both of her arms. _What the hell._ "What?! No, what are you talking about?"

Angelica blinks but leans back. "Nothing, please go on." 

"I need you to help me with all this Mock Trial stuff. I don't know the first thing about law."

"But Washington was gushing over your experiences at the courthouse."

Alex wets his lips anxiously. "Yeah, that's the thing. I lied."

"Fucking hell, Alex," Angelica closes her eyes, trying to understand how she managed to befriend the human embodiment of the poo emoji.

"I know, right? I messed up. But you have to--"

A shuffling can be heard from the back of the room. Both Angelica and Alex's heads turn to the source of the sound, only to face the form of Aaron Burr.

"Holy shit, how long have you been there?!"

"I never left, idiot," Aaron deadpans.

"So..." Alex claps his hands together. "You heard all of that, I'm guessing."

"You'd be correct."

Angelica, bless her, steps in. "Burr, say a word about this, and I'll tell everyone about that one time you set yourself on fire during our extra credit chem assignment two years ago."

"Wait, what?" Alex asks, because _wait, what._

"I swore you to secrecy, Angelica!"

"And, I'm swearing you to secrecy now. Take it or leave it, Burr."

"This is nonsense. I've been in this club for _years_ , trying to earn Washington's approval, and this _hack_ decides he can waltz in and steal the glory for himself because Washington's gullible?"

Alex is ready to pop off. "Who you callin' a hack, you nosy little--"

"I'm calling _you_ a hack. You're a liar. You _lied._  

"Okay, I get it, jeeze. It's not that big of a deal, really."

"Whatever," Aaron mutters as he marches through the threshold of the door.

Alex refuses to let him go that quickly though, as he yells out, "Don't tell anyone, or I'll tell your foster mom that you were bullying me!" He stomps his foot like a child, not noticing Angelica's inquiring look.    

"You know his foster mom?"

Alex calms, slightly. "Yeah, she works at the salon. You'd know her if you saw her. I'm pretty sure she's done your hair before." 

"Is she the one that always wears really strong old lady perfume?"

"Yeah! She only smells like that because she comes to the salon as soon as her shift at the nursing home is over. She's really nice--I have no idea how she can even stand Burr."

"Burr's a kiss-up, that's why. All smiles and compliments around adults, but as soon as they turn their back, he goes into full pretentious asshole mode."

Alex rubs his sweaty hands together, and paces in front of Washington's desk. "You don't think he'll tell nobody, right? You saw how cool me and Washington were up there; if he finds out that I was lying about everything he'll disown me as his favorite."

"Burr's not the type to snitch," she grimaces to herself before saying, "Alright, he _is_ , but not unless its immediately beneficial to him. Sure, if he tells on you, you get kicked out, but it doesn't really do much for him, does it?" She steps in front of the still pacing boy, stopping him in his tracks. "But, who said you're his favorite? What if _I'm_ his favorite, huh?"

"Ange...sis...you didn't speak the entire meeting..."

"Washington likes it when we save the talking for when we're in court. Speaking of which, you're really clueless about how all this stuff works, then, right?"

"No need to rub it in, but yes." He hoists up the heavy stack of paper in his hands. "Is this much paper necessary? Isn't this school supposed to be going green, or whatever?"

"For all the good Washington's done, he doesn't give a single shit about the environment. One year, we made a drinking game out of how many times we caught him littering on the drive from the courthouse." She elaborates with, "We always go out to Subway after a meet, and every single time, he throws the entire bag out the window. One time, it hit a cop's windshield." She sighs, fondly. "And, that is how I watched one of my teachers almost get arrested. Good times."

"That's great, really, but _how am I supposed to survive this?"_

"Jeeze, calm down Peach Fuzz. Here, you can swing by my place after school tomorrow and I can brief you on all things Mock Trial, 'kay? Will that make you feel better, babyface?"

"Oh, my god, quit it with the petnames!" He's about to storm off from Angelica's howls of laughter when he remembers something. "Wait, uh, I gotta thing after school tomorrow. It shouldn't be too long, but can we maybe push our thing back to Saturday?"

She agrees, albeit begrudgingly, and bids him adieu with yet another sloppy kiss, this time on the forehead. Though he wants to be annoyed, he knows he'd probably be dead without her, so instead he takes it like a champ.

Once he's in the hallway, he's greeted by his new friends (are they that cool yet? He's never had a group of friends before--he doesn't know the logistics just yet), who all but tackle him.

Hercules is cooing, which sounds really weird coming out of his mouth. "Ooh, Alex got a date! And with Angelica Schuyler! How you only been here for a week and already snatching up all the good ass?" Hercules fumbles when he sees Lafayette's unimpressed face. "But everyone knows I got the best ass of them all right here!"

Lafayette rolls their eyes. "Yeah, so _anyway._ Alex, why didn't you tell us you were associating with Angelica? Were you trying to keep it on the, ahem, DL?"

Alex ignores the question, overcome with mild disgust. "Holy shit, Lafayette, no one says that anymore. No one."

John jumps in with, "I'm pretty sure Hillary Clinton used it once in an attempt to look 'with it'."

"No one says that either, John," he says lightly, but when he finally chances a look at him he's instantly taken aback by how dejected his friend looks. "What's wrong?" 

"Ah, nothing, I'm great! Just nervous for auditions tomorrow. I always get pre-auditions jitters."

Lafayette sweeps over with an arm around the shoulder. "There is nothing to be afraid of, mon pote. You have got this! I will be honest with you, I tend to play favorites."

Hercules grumbles something under his breath, which earns him a glare from Lafayette. He presses his lips together as if it's killing him not to say something. He decides to say, "I'm hungry, y'all wanna go chill by McDonald's? I'd say my treat, but there's no way in _hell_ I'm paying for any of y'all's asses." Again, another unimpressed look from Lafayette. "Except yours, of course. I'd buy you every French fry money can buy, my frenchiest fry."

"How romantic," they growl before shaking Hercules' arm off of their back.

John nods, ignoring the clear tension in the air. "Hold up, just let me get something out of my locker real quick."

"Cool, meet us outside by my car," Hercules instructs, still looking at his seething French friend. Alex starts off toward the front steps of the school, wanting to get rid of the award vibes before they're stuck in a car for God knows how long. The two follow him, silent up until they reach the parking lot across the street where Hercules' green Chevy waits. 

He takes out his keys to unlock the doors, the unlock button sticking a little. "So, you and Angelica, huh?" 

"No, nuh-uh, never. Okay, I thought about it, but that was forever and a half ago. We're just working on Mock Trial stuff together, is all. I can't think of anything more platonic than that." He slides into the backseat, not even flinching at the burning material of the seats like Lafayette and Hercules are. "Could you imagine, though? Me and Angelica going out? That'd be crazy--she'd never see me that way."

"True, Angelica Schuyler's got mad standards."

"Exactly!" A beat. "Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" Hercules answers this with a wink through the rearview mirror, causing Alex to snort.

Lafayette twiddles their thumbs for a bit, giving quick looks out of the window before blurting out, "You should tell John that there's nothing between you two, then."

"Oh, okay. Mind telling me why?"

"You just," they knock their head on the back of the seat. "Should. He'll be...relieved."

"Oh," Alex mutters. That explained why he had looked so upset back in the hallway. Did he like Angelica? Alex can't help but think that they'd be perfect for each other. Angelica  with her wit and John with his thoughtfulness, combined with both of their unwavering compassion. They'd balance each other out, and they'd definitely be the school's most attractive couple.

Alex wants to throw himself off a cliff. _Maybe I should set them up? That's what a good friend would do, right?_

But, he doesn't feel like being a good friend. He feels like being a selfish brat with a huge, stupid, completely unrealistic crush on John Laurens 

Speaking of the devil, John comes bounding out of the school with his backpack hanging off of his shoulders. He gets the backseat door open, and plops into the seat next to Alex with as much grace as a dog after finally being released from his cage.

"Micky D's, here we come!" He says with the excitement of someone who hasn't had chicken nuggets in a while. 

The ride across town is fairly uneventful, though certainly longer than expected. Seeing that the school isn't located in the inner city, and thus, not surrounded by a fast-food restaurant on every corner, the closest McDonald's is almost twenty minutes away. In the meantime, Lafayette has control of the aux cord, and is blasting a mix of 70's disco hits and Busta Rhymes. What's most surprising about this is the fact that Laf actually keeps up with the fast rapping, which is strange for someone who usually takes it slow when it comes to the English language. 

Once they reach the dining establishment, Hercules turns down the radio (much to Lafayette's chagrin) and queries, "So, we eating inside or should we eat in the parking lot? I don't care which, as long as none of you leave a mess in my car."

"I read somewhere that fast food places purposefully make the indoor atmosphere uncomfortable, so people don't want to stay and eat for long. That's why the chairs are always so hard and the entire place smells like a restroom. It's all part of this weird efficiency complex America has." John says instead of actually answering the question. Alex takes in his words with awe, refraining from thinking "my boyfriend is sooo smart", because really, that'd just be weird.

Hercules eyes John through the mirror but nonetheless pulls up to the speaker. "You could've just said 'nah, I think eating inside's gross" but I feel you." A voice begging for them to take their order crackles through the speaker. "Quick, what do you guys want?"

Lafayette huffs. "You know I hate this place, cher."

"Then, why didn't you tell me before I wasted my gas driving here?!"

" _Because_ , I was waiting for you to come to your senses. I have told you a thousand times that the food here is poisonous!"

"We've been over this, babe--"

"Do not 'babe' me, I'm mad at you."

"What?! Why? What did I do?"

"Forgetting I detest McDonald's, calling Angelica Schuyler 'good ass'--"

"Whoa, you're still pressed about that? You know I didn't mean it--"

"Hello? Can I take your order!" Shouts the overworked cashier. Alex and John share a look.

"And, then there's the fact that you did not save a seat for me this morning in Stat. You let that André guy take my seat that I have been sitting in all week-- 

"What was I supposed to do? 

The cashier interjects again. "Listen folks, I really don't care about your drama, but if you don't give me your order in the next five seconds, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave."

Alex pokes his head between the fighting pair. "Yo, guys, I think this can be better settled in the parking lot." 

"Oh, yeah you right, you right." Hercules pulls out of the growing line, much to the relief of the cashier and the three cars behind him. When they eventually pull into a spot underneath the shade of a tree, the chaos continues in full force.

"I see the way he looks at you. It is obscene."  

"He looks at everyone that way. I even saw him checking out Eliza Schuyler during Art. No one gets away with checking out Eliza Schuyler." 

This catches Alex's attention, and he leans forward in his seat. "How come?"

"One word: Angelica. Ever since last year--"

"What happened last year?"

"Do not change the subject, Herc! You still should not have let him take my seat! You know how territorial I am."

"Oh, believe me, I know," Hercules mutters, which incites a loud scoff from Lafayette. John groans at this, and nudges Alex in his side. 

"You wanna just get our food and hope that they've kissed and made up by the time we come back?" He provides in a low voice that sends shivers down Alex's spine.

"Please and thank you." They sneak out of the car with ease.

  

* * *

 

John had been very right about the inside conditions of the restaurant. It smells like a nauseating mix of grease, more grease, and ass.

They reach the counter and Alex eyes his friend. "You wanna just share a 20-piece nugget meal?" 

"Sure, with hella fries, right?" Suggest John, who is looking at the lit up menu above them in wonderment. 

"Why else would we be here if it wasn't for hella fries?" 

When they order, Alex intercepts the transaction by handing the cashier some bills from his last payday. He knows its going to be harder to make money now that summer is over, and his hours at the salon are shorter. But, it's entirely worth the open-mouthed look John gives him that quickly morphs into an amused grin.

"You really had to pay me back, didn't you?"

"I hate feeling like I owe people something." 

"Don't feel like you ever owe me anything, man." And if that sentences doesn't feel like it has a certain weight to it, Alex doesn't know _what_ to do. 

They sit down on the (of course) much-too hard chairs as they wait for their order.

"So...what's the deal with Herc and Laf?"

"Oh, they've been bickering since this morning. I'm pretty sure it's because they're both so stressed out with auditions coming up. The school isn't helping them _at all_ with Little Shop. And the theater department head has been breathing down their necks about every little thing. They're just taking the frustration out on each other." 

"No, I got that. Well, sorta." He coughs. "I was wondering what they, y'know...are? To each other?" 

"Oh! They're together. Laf told me they've been official since their sophomore year. Um, you don't mind do you?" 

"Why would I mind? I'm..." He pauses. He's never really said it out loud before, never really got the chance to, but-- "I'm bi. I don't have a problem with Lafayette and Herc's thing. I get it."

"Oh," John breathes. A sudden serenity takes over his facial features, the corners of his lips are rising, and his eyes are crinkling with a joy that Alex didn't expect. "That's awesome, man. Both things. Uh," he runs a hand through his locs, and makes a face as if he wants to ask something, but decides against it. Instead, he goes, "That's cool. Are you out?"

Now it's time for Alex to falter. "Not really? It never comes up in conversation, so it's not like I've had the opportunity to just come out with it. But," he picks at the corners of his nails, avoiding looking at John's face lit up with glee. "If anyone ever asks, I'm not gonna lie, or anything." 

"So...I'm the only one who knows?" 

"Yep," he huffs out a laugh. "Congratulations, you should be honored." 

"I am," John replies, earnestly, and that just about fucks Alex up into oblivion. 

Luckily, before Alex does something really stupid, the cashier calls their order and the two boys grab their food to take to the car.

However, they both come to a halt when they're about a yard in front of the vehicle, and catch Hercules and Lafayette feverishly making out across the front seats. Hercules' hands are digging into Lafayette's curly mane, their scrunchie clearly lost in the commotion. Laf's hands are sliding down Hercules' torso, down to a place that the other two really don't feel like knowing about. 

They quickly sprint back inside of the building.

"That was..." John's face is completely wiped blank. 

"Well, you did say you wanted them to kiss and make up."

"Yeah, but not like _that_." He eventually opens the bag and places the nuggets and fries on the sticky table. They eat in silence for a while, until John says, "I guess it's fair that I tell you that I'm pan, then? Since you told me about you, and all."

"Oh, sweet. Suppose me, you, and the lovebirds could form a club."

"Ha, yeah, no. Those two would just spend the whole meeting time giving each other bedroom eyes."

Alex chuckles fondly. He stuffs a handful of fries in his mouth, swallows, and musters up the strength to say, "Since we're being honest, I'll just come right out and say it: Angelica and I aren't a thing. At all. And we probably never will be, if that's any comfort to you." John stiffens and the atmosphere of peace is immediately sucked out of the room.

"Why would that be--no I don't." John drops the nugget in his hand into his lap. "You know, don't you?"

"Yeah, listen, I'm cool with it."

"But, you don't like it."

Shit, had he been caught? Did he know that the thought of him and Angelica being perfect together made his skin crawl? Well, he was already being honest, so. "I don't. Sorry." He scrubs a hand over his face. "I made things weird, didn't I?"

"No! No, it was me. I shouldn't have been so obvious."

"You weren't being obvious at all! I didn't even know until Lafayette told me."

"Wait, what?! I told them not to breathe a word of this to you and they still--Jesus, fuck."

"I'm sure they meant well--"

"Whatever, it's...whatever." He slumps down impossibly lower into his seat. "We can still be friends, right?"

"Why wouldn't we still be friends? It's not that big of a deal to me."

"Wow, okay. Yeah. Good." He stuffs his hands into jean pockets--thank heavens he finally caught on to public school dress codes--and stands up. "I'm gonna go make Hercules stop sucking Lafayette's face off long enough to drive us home, okay?"

"Yeah, okay." And with that, John's out the door. 

Alex looks down at his half eaten food, and takes in the strength of the grease in the air. He pushes it all away and drops his head down onto the table.

He doesn't have much of an appetite anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> Pote- my buddy/homie, basically more informal than "my friend"
> 
> The song laf links is “grow for me” lmao
> 
> What John's talking about is a real thing called "McDonaldization" which is actually rly interesting! You should check it out if u ever want to kno about robots taking over the world or whatever

**Author's Note:**

> comments n concerns r highly appreciated! [to the tune of "ride with me"] if u wanna go and come sin with me hit me up on tumblr @ barackandrollobama, o why do i live this way (hey must be the money)


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